Brother, Mine
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "He thinks it would be highly inappropriate to laugh right now, but it will be funny in hindsight, won't it? Right? They'll sit around and laugh about it, because they're going to survive this." Mycroft and Sherlock, brothers until the end. Character Death. Combination of a low mood and a case of writer's block. Short but sad. Please R&R.


**AN:** Been in a bit of a down mood lately. There's a story that I'm supposed to be working on for a fellow fan fic member, but I can't get anything to write correctly. I present to you the result of an effort to remove writer's block. Sad. Sad. Sad. Mycroft and Sherlock, brothers until the end. Let me know what you think!

* * *

The blood is dark crimson and hot in his hands. It's sticky and clinging to his skin. The air is already getting a metallic odor. He shakes his head frantically, sweat plastered hair moving very little in the humid, poorly lit room.

It can't end like this.

There's a grunt from below as he tries to press the blood back into his brother's body, to stop it from flowing out of the artery that's been hit by some fragment of some madman's bullet. The grunt turns into a gasp as his bloodied bony hand applies pressure at the join between his brother's thigh and groin where he can feel the pulse running, through the fabric of his fine trousers.

He thinks it would be highly inappropriate to laugh right now, but it will be funny in hindsight, won't it? They can sit around and laugh about how he saved his brother's life by sticking his hand down his pants. Right? They'll sit around and laugh about that, because they're going to survive this.

The puddle on the floor grows larger still.

It can't end like this.

* * *

Sherlock is very young when he befriends an incredibly weak magpie that had broken its wing. Despite Mycroft's protests, Sherlock keeps the bird in a little box and feeds it scraps of raw meat from the kitchen and any vegetables he can sneak out of the garden.

One morning Sherlock shakes Mycroft awake and in his hands he holds the magpie, cold and stiff. Tears line his young grey eyes. His lower lip wobbles. Mycroft says nothing. He twists out of bed and finds a pair of slippers. He finds their coats and bundles them up. In the predawn mist he and Sherlock walk to the side of the pond. They kneel in the damp earth with trowels that they've taken from the shed and dig a hole large enough for the magpie's body.

Sherlock lays the bird inside the hole and strokes his fingers along the feathers for a long while. Mycroft sits patiently on his heels and watches. Finally Sherlock removes his hand and looks up. There are tear stains on his face but he isn't crying anymore. "What will happen now?" His voice is small.

Mycroft takes and handful of the dirt they displaced and moves it back over the magpie, encouraging his brother to do the same. "He will decompose. Return to the Earth from which he came. In a way, his energy will live on in the lives of other plants and animals and even people."

Sherlock nods and places the final handful of dirt over the bird. They stand and Sherlock shivers from the cold of the winter morning. The sun is only just now above the horizon. Mycroft draws Sherlock in against him and, uncharacteristically, Sherlock rests his head in the soft sturdiness of Mycroft's side as they begin to walk back to "Will we die, Mycroft?" He says when they are close enough to see the glinting windows of the manor.

"Yes, Sherlock. All lives end."

"But not for a very long time, right?"

Mycroft squeezes Sherlock around the shoulders and closes his eyes. "Not if I have any control over the matter."

* * *

He strains to hear sirens in the distance and he cannot. He curses and applies a sharper pressure to his brother's groin in an attempt to still the blood flow. It's not working. They both know it's not working.

"Sherlock." His voice is incredibly calm, he thinks, for someone in this situation. "Sherlock…. Stop." He breathes out through his nose.

"I can fix this." Sherlock says frantically, hands too slick and too hot and, "It's just too damn dark in this room." He rages.

"Sherlock. Look at me." Mycroft reaches a pale hand down and grasps Sherlock's bloody arm. The younger brother stops and looks up at Mycroft, lost. His lower lip trembles. "A wise man knows when his race is run."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. You can't. Mycroft… it's not…"

"Sherlock, stop. Let go, please. Just let go of me now." His voice is calm and gentle, like when they were younger, when Mycroft was a teenager and Sherlock was a toddler who had a nightmare.

"It's my fault…" Sherlock's voice breaks. Mycroft smirks even now.

"No. Sherlock, it's not your fault. Now… kindly remove your hand from my groin."

"If I let go, you'll die…" There are tears on his face and he uses his shoulder to wipe them away.

"All lives end." Mycroft says simply. "And I would rather die looking at you, not at this damn mold infested ceiling." It is a soft plea and Sherlock looks up to meet his brother's eyes.

"You can't." He says brokenly. "It's too soon. You'll have three minutes, maybe five if I let go now."

"And I have ten if you don't. Please, Sherlock. Let go of me."

Against his conscious thought, Sherlock releases Mycroft's pressure point. A gush of blood flows from his leg and Mycroft grunts heavily. He's sweating and pale. "Move up here, Sherlock. Let me see you."

Covered in his brother's blood, Sherlock moves as instructed.

"Will you hold me?" Mycroft says suddenly and at Sherlock's look of incredulity he adds, "Last wish of a dying man?" Without hesitation, Sherlock pulls Mycroft's head into his lap and places a thin hand over his heart. Mycroft smiles, content.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. "Smarts a bit."

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes."

"Mycroft… I…"

They're eyes are locked on one another. There's still more blood on the floor. How much blood can one body hold? Sherlock knows, Mycroft thinks. He doesn't want to ask. How much more can he lose?

He feels his mind spin and his vision falters.

Apparently not much more.

"Sherlock." Mycroft says suddenly. The hand over his heart grasps at nothing. Mycroft reaches up and wraps their fingers together. "Don't look away, please? Do this for me." His voice doesn't sound so calm anymore.

"I don't know what to say." Sherlock says, not daring to look away. Where is the ambulance? Damn it. Damn it all.

"You don't have to say anything. Just keep your eyes fixed on me."

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock cries, finally. He wipes the tears off of his face with a bloody hand.

"Whatever for, brother?" Mycroft is smiling.

"For everything." He says with a returning smile. "Everything I've done to make your life hell. Every comment I ever made about your diet and about Lestrade and the drugs and…" He'd be fine with Mycroft weighing three hundred pounds, he'd never touch another cigarette, he'd do anything if only the blood would stop.

Mycroft's heart skips a beat. He gasps and pulls at Sherlock's hand. "Don't apologize. Sherlock…" He breathes slowly. "You were… not unbearable."

"Just… promise me you'll keep an eye on Gregory. Don't let him do anything stupid…"

Each word is taking more air and he feels faint. "And what about me?" Sherlock says petulantly.

"You'll always do something stupid. I trust Doctor Watson will keep you in order." They both laugh, Sherlock's is strained and Mycroft's is breathy. He struggles with something and then his mouth falls open, "I am so very proud of you, Sherlock."

His brother lets out a small sob and leans forward, covering the upper half of Mycroft's body with his own. He listens to his breaths falter.

"Don't let go." Mycroft says, eyes widening. "I'm won't be afraid if you don't let go. Don't let go until it's over."

"Never." Sherlock says viciously, grabbing onto Mycroft's knuckles hard enough to bruise. "I promise."

"Don't let them burn me." His voice cracks and the world swims before his eyes. He sees dark on the edges. So, this is the end? Mycroft concentrates on the warmth of his brother's body over his increasingly cold one.

Sherlock is taken aback. "All right. All right."

"No metal caskets."

"Mycroft…"

"I never wrote this down, Sherlock. I figured there was…" He gasps as pain radiates through his leg suddenly. "All the time in the world."

"No metal caskets."

"A nice pine box, I think. Send me back to the Earth from which I came." He's lost the energy to keep talking and his mouth falls slack.

Mycroft's eyes flutter. Darkness is creeping on all sides now, advancing faster. Sherlock feels Mycroft's heart is slowing. He sobs. "Mycroft…"

"Sherlock." Mycroft slurs, and then he is still. His hand loosens around Sherlock's.

He is unable to form words. He keens loudly and pulls his brother's body to his chest, trying to preserve the warmth in his skin which has already taken on a blue grey hue. "No." He screams and then, like his brother is a ragdoll, he rocks them back and forth. "I'm sorry… Mycroft… I love you…" He repeats over and over into his brother's hair, punctuated by gasping sobs until his throat is raw and he cannot catch his breath.

Eight minutes, Sherlock thinks without meaning too. Eight minutes between the bullet entering Mycroft's leg and now. A miniscule moment and an eternity all wrapped into one.

He clutches Mycroft tighter and the tears keep falling.

The siren approaches.

Eight minutes too late.


End file.
